


Kindynos Cliff

by archiesfrog



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Story within a Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:57:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8874811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archiesfrog/pseuds/archiesfrog
Summary: A baron is up to mischief. Barons are always up to mischief.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [impertinence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/impertinence/gifts).



> Happy yuletide impertinence!  
> Thanks to labellementeuse for a fantastically helpful beta.

The king had been out of sorts for the past week. Costis was concerned, as the cause was unclear and the consequences thus uncertain. He found himself in the position of being the buffer between the king’s temper and the rest of the court. Far too many looked to him to smooth over the discontent, and Costis was a loss for where to begin. 

He thought he knew what the problem wasn’t. For once, his king and queen and seemed amiable. There had been no sudden, unexpected or unusual missives from Eddis, from Sounis, from kingdoms across the sea. The food was good, the servants quick and attentive. By a process of elimination, and with no further evidence, Costis blamed the barons, either as a group or in the singular. He just wasn’t sure what he was blaming them for.

“Shh.” The king gestured sharply for quiet, even as Costis opened his mouth. Bereft of speech, with no way to ask just why the King of Attolia was choosing to hide in a stillroom, Costis settled for an enquiring look, and badly masked irritation with neutrality. 

His irritation was justified, but also impolitic to show. He had been looking for the king for two hours, and would have been searching still if not for a helpful chambermaid, who had seen the king a corridor away three hours ago, and told him rather than any one of the dozens of others who would have gladly given her a coin for her trouble. 

With left hand still raised for silence, the King of Attolia gestured with his hook for Costis to enter and close the door.

He did so, and stood awkwardly near the exit of the small, dark room. He could not easily have entered further. The king was sitting on the workbench, already resuming the pose he had been in prior to Costis’ interruption. He was leaning against the wall. His legs, resting on a high stool, took up much of the space, and the rest was crowded with drying herbs and distilling paraphernalia. The king closed his eyes, and appeared to fall asleep. 

Costis hovered uncertainly for some minutes, torn between Eugenides’ obvious desire to not be further interrupted and the need to deliver a message from the queen. His fear of the queen, even in her absence, won out over the king’s implicit command. 

“My king,” he said, speaking softly, “the queen wishes your attendance at the concert this afternoon.

“As the afternoon is nearly over, her disappointment is both obvious and inevitable,” the king replied.

“They’re waiting for you, your majesty.” 

“Then they will have a long wait. You may tell the queen you could not find me.”

Costis hesitated. He dreaded the thought of returning to the queen with her demand unmet. Even more terrifying was attempting to lie to her. 

“No,” the king said. “That won’t do, she’d see the lie in your face.”

Obviously, thought Costis, and also to lie to the queen was a matter of honour, and not something to do even at his king’s request. Lie for the king to any other, yes, but to the queen – the very notion terrified. Judging by Eugenides’ widening eyes and rapid backtrack he agreed, and Costis would be spared.

Eugenides kicked his feet clear of the stool, letting them swing.

“Sit, Costis.” He gestured to the stool. 

Costis sat. 

The room was close, stifling and still in the afternoon heat. Costis shifted, opening his mouth once more, trying to think of the words that might coax Eugenides from his temper.

Eugenides, eyes closed again, huffed out breath. “Stay still, Costis. And be quiet.”

Costis, resigning himself to a long and uncomfortable afternoon, and the queen’s disappointment in his future, endeavoured to obey.

“He’s wrong, you know,” Eugenides murmured.

“Who is, sire?” 

“That dog-faced, deer-hearted Baron of Navagio. May Eugenides turn his face from the cowardly pustule.” 

Costis blinked at the king’s vehemence. 

“Baron Navagio has angered you?” 

The baron in question was not a particularly powerful one. He had a relatively small estate along the northern coast, near the small, inhospitable coastal stretch that was Eddis’ only sea access. The baron was a middle-aged, genial man, less inclined to court machinations than many. He seemed an unlikely target for anger, and had not been on Costis’ mental list of reasons for the king’s recent displeasure. 

“Seven ships, Costis — seven — aground in the landward Sounis to Attolia sea passage in the past six months. Does that seem unlikely to you?”

Costis blinked. The answer was clearly supposed to be yes, but – 

“It is a dangerous passage, sire, and the shipping has likely increased though it, since the islands further from land have —” Costis paused, unsure whether pointing out to king he had a pirate infestation was in fact politic, even in answer to a direct question.

But Eugenides was looking at him with the intent, blank expression Costis had learned was not necessarily negative, so continued.

“The danger of the islands may have encouraged many captains to choose a passage they are not capable of.”

“Perhaps."

Costis was sure that was not agreement.

******  
  
**

Irene was standing staring out the window. The palace was dark, the garden torches unlit. She did not turn when Eugenides entered the room, scuffing the floor so she would hear him. He stopped in the center of the room as she spoke.

“The dancers caught cold.” 

“That happens when one stands around outdoors.”

“The court was unhappy with their wait.” 

“Perhaps some chilling will improve the tempers of the court.”

“Or freeze them to icy harshness.” After a pause, she continued. “Costis failed to find you.”

“He succeeded, and indeed he even brought me here.” 

“Hours late.”

“Not his fault.”

They turned as one, both looking at Costis.

He stood just inside the door as a solid lump of immobility, wishing he could just leave, and if not that his majesties' conversation could turn to a different topic. Anything, really, would be preferable to having the intense focus of both monarchs on him. Their gazes seemed assessing, almost hungry.

“Pack your gear, Costis.” 

“My king?” Costis said, staring at him.

“We travel at first light,” Eugenides said.

“Yes, my king,” Costis said, biting back a request to know just where they were going. Or why. How long their absence from court was likely to be could be helpful too, if only to know how much to pack.

“I think I shall undertake a journey myself,” the queen said. “The islands have been rebuilding. I should like to see their progress.”

“Enjoy your sailing,” Eugenides said, and bowed his leave to Irene. Costis turned to follow him.

“Stay, Costis,” the queen said. 

He stopped, and turned towards her.

“Look after Gen,” she said. 

Costis was moved by the honest concern in her face, and responded with truth rather than careful words. “Always, my queen.”

“Look after yourself, too,” she said with a smile.

****

The Barony Navagio was similar to any other coastal barony Costis had visited; once he had settled he wandered through the megaron to find the training courtyard, where men at arms exercised. Eugenides was lunching with the baron, and Costis was expected to learn what he could of ships running aground. 

He was having little luck. The men at arms were fairly hostile, okoloi who travelled little, were uninterested in discussion and did not share the curiosity many showed to new faces. When a well-dressed man entered the courtyard Costis felt the strained atmosphere increase. 

“Who’s he?” Costis asked the man next to him.

“Ephialtes, the Baron’s nephew,” the neighbour said.

Costis studied him, memorising what he could in case Gen quizzed him later. Ephialtes was not a man to anger. He was not particularly physically powerful, but sharp eyed and mean featured. He was dressed in well-made clothes, but they were sensible ones for hard work, and old enough to show some stains — not a peacock, but clearly a favoured nephew. As Ephialtes walked passed him Costis caught a whiff of dried sweat and lamp oil. Not merely decorative, Costis thought.

By evening he had found out nothing but rumours from the few willing to talk to him. Those cursed Eddis, talking of the lighthouse on their cliffs that should have been guiding ships safely through the dangerous passage but instead seemed to be breaking too many good Attolian ships to pieces. 

Eugenides and Costis went on a picnic the next day. When the king had expressed his desire for a picnic the evening before Baron Navagio had been quick to suggest scenic spots. Eugenides had been characteristically wilful, and instead announced a desire to visit the high cliffs of Kindynos, a few hours ride from the megaron. 

They rode out in the early morning, along a dusty, broad road, winding between olive groves on gently rolling hills. As they went on the road narrowed to a track and the hills rose, steep gullies cutting through hills only good for hardy goats. The track became barely passable for the horses, and they dismounted and walked them. The shod hoofprints and booted footprints showed others had done the same. They emerged from a valley to a clifftop view of brilliant blue sea. It was mostly windswept grass, with some piebald patches of scorched earth, a couple recent and smelling of lamp oil.

They ate lunch on the hilltop, basking in the warm sun and gentle breeze, and lay back on the grass, watching the clouds. They were lazy in the warmth, and Eugenides, in a chatty mood, spoke of the gods and goddesses worshipped just over the border in the coastal part of Eddis. Costis asked for a tale from that region.

“What kind?” Gen asked.

“One that ends happily,” Costis replied, wanting to keep the warm contented feeling.

“Gods are not often given to happy endings,” Gen replied.

“But some may be found.”

***

Dictys is a local god who specialises in beekeeping and is the patron of chandlers. His wife Callirhoe watches over the river and the dyeing and spinning of flax into linen. They live in harmony, and where this story starts had been married for time out of mind. In the ways of gods their marriage was one of affection and honour, but not exclusivity. Sometimes a handsome young man, good with the flocks, would catch the eye of Callirhoe, who might choose to woo him, or perhaps she would spy a comely maiden with hands so quick it was like she could spin straw into gold. Dictys would likewise stray, attention captured by a man with a broad smile or woman with a spritely laugh. 

To be loved by the Goddess or the God could be dangerous. They were prone to sudden jealousies, taking against one another’s lovers, sometimes with violent consequence. It could also be hugely rewarding; to be a favourite of a God is to be blessed indeed.

One afternoon when Callirhoe was sitting by the stream she met a young man who fished in her river, broad of shoulder with a kind face and clever eyes. She talked and walked with him all that day, and left well pleased to return to her husband. She spoke of the youth she had met, but carefully did not say where, or give information that could identify him to her sometimes jealous spouse. Dictys listened and was curious, but had his own preoccupation, a young man he met often in the mornings mending ropes in his meadow. The man was straight of limb, with a musical voice and quick wit. 

Both the God and the Goddess might have let their preoccupations drop, a brief moment soon passed, were it not for a chance meeting when the Goddess came to see where her suitor was one morning, and found him working in the fields while the indulgent Dictys looked on. 

***

Costis stirred, and Gen paused his narration.

“I wanted a happy tale,” Costis said, a little petulant.

“Who says this isn’t one?” 

“A love triangle to end happily?” Costis asked. “They will be at war in a year, or the man killed!”

“Just listen,” Gen said.

***

The God and Goddess were in conflict, but loved one another enough to keep their strife from becoming war. Instead, they entered into a competition. The God would give the man a gift of the finest honey, the Goddess would present him with linen so soft it was lighter than silk. Dictys entertained him with tales, Callirhoe would sing to him. Each tried to outdo the other, until finally they agreed it had gone on long enough. Then they went to the man, and told him that their actions and their words could not convince the other who was more worthy, and so the man himself must choose whose suit he would favour. 

The man had accepted their favours, he had delighted in their attempts to entertain him, and he had enjoyed their efforts. He now grew angry. “How can you tell me to choose?” he said. “You are water and food, night and day. If I pick one, both will be angry, and either way I will lose all I value. But more, I shall lose my heart, for I have given it to both of you, and picking one above the other should sunder it entirely. Better to pick none, and lose much but have a heart merely broken, not rent in two.” He left them in their meadow by the stream, to stare at one another in consternation. 

The God and the Goddess talked long that day, and argued much. But in the end they were agreed. They both wanted the man, and would rather both woo him than leave him be. So they spent a week working together, making linen ropes, well woven and burnished with beeswax, which they turned into  a net so perfect that fish seemed to jump into it as soon as it touched the water. They went together to present the young man with this final gift. He took their gift, and was glad to receive it, but gladder still that Dictys and Callirhoe shared in the making and the gifting. They all three shared all things from that day. If you listen well by the river of Callirhoe you can hear the three of them run laughing through the meadow, even today.

***

“An unusual end.” Costis said.

“But did it please you?” Eugenide asked. Costis smiled

“Yes, it pleased me.”

Irene arrived unannounced at the megaron the next day. Costis had been trying without success to get more information about the shipwrecks from the men at arms. They had appeared dour on first meeting and become more unfriendly as time went by. They were willing to cross swords in the training ground, but did not offer a seat at a table of a drink afterwards.  

Waiting on the King and Queen at dinner was a pleasant change. 

The baron was an old man, and showed it in stooped shoulders and a head that shook. He still had a presence, and was alert enough to direct the conservation along harmless pathways. Dinner was a banquet, the many courses passing slowly by while the dining nobles made polite, inconsequential chatter on weather, crops and the latest play in the city. 

It was not until the first breads had been eaten, many toasts drunk, and the stuffed anchovies brought out that Irene mentioned her recent visit to the islands, and the islanders’ complaints about the ill-run Eddisian lighthouse. Baron Navagio agreed emphatically, expanding on their complaints. 

“For indeed, it is as if Eddis wishes to wreck the sea trade altogether, dousing their lights that we must all rely entirely on her inland routes, and pay her taxes.” 

“Those that wrecked spoke of too many lights, not missing ones.” Eugenides observed.

“Eddisian treachery!” The Baron exclaimed. “They lead our sailors astray, then seek to blame us for their misdeeds.”

“And what do they blame us for, Baron?” Eugenides asked mildly. “Perhaps the wreckage that lands on your shore?”

The Baron flushed.

“It is no fault or favour of mine if Nereus chooses to give gifts,” he replied hotly. "Wrecks have always been salvaged by any who can reach them; that is law.”

“True,” said Eugenides “but you have a responsibility to investigate wrecks, and the claims of their captains — or have none spoken to you of their concerns?”

“Why would we pay mind to the rambling of drink-soaked fools who cannot keep their ships off rocks and look to blame others for their misfortunes?” Ephialtes, the Baron’s nephew asked.

“Because the lights come from your uncle's holdings and are lit by booted men with riding horses, so he is either ignorant of the workings of his Barony, or encouraging villainy.”

“Anyone could light a lamp on the Kindynos cliff tops. That proves nothing,” Ephialtes said.

“I did not say where the lamp was lit,” said Eugenides.

Ephialtes rose to his feet, fury warring with fear. Costis moved forward, ready to intervene if necessary. 

“Enough,” The Baron roared — or attempted to. His voice broke on his shout, and descended into a coughing fit. He paused to sip wine then continue. “Enough, nephew. I have let you shame our house long enough.” He looked then at his king. “I did not know, I swear. I did not ask. I should have.” He looked defeated, very old, and very small.

The queen inclined her head and at the gesture two of her guard stepped forward and escorted Ephialtes from the room. He would be taken back to the city, bound for a long time in prison.

The baron watched his nephew taken away, then staggered out himself, a man aged years in half an hour.

Irene, Eugenides and Costis were left in the dining hall, as alone as could be hoped for in a bustling megaron.

“You could not spend a week apart?” Eugenides teased Irene. 

She smiled at him. “Perhaps I did not trust you to behave.”

“Costis watched over me,” he said.

“And who watched Costis?”

Costis decided to be brave. “We watched out for each other … Irene.”

Almost he closed his eye, waiting for the swing of sword in punishment for his effrontery. Instead he looked at Irene’s smile, bright and glad, and Eugenides’ grin, warm and fond. He smiled back at them both.

****  
  



End file.
